Arranged. Tied. Done.

There was no magic in it — no ceremony, no vows whispered under soft light. Just two strangers, bound by a contract neither of them asked for.

You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. And you both made that painfully clear the moment Voldemort announced you were to marry his son — Mattheo Riddle.

He was 2 years older. Distant. Still clinging to the girl he was forced to leave behind for this arrangement. You had no one to leave behind — except the dream of a wedding wrapped in love, not obligation.

A black dress. A black suit. Both of you seated on a stiff leather couch, signing parchment with trembling fingers. One ring slipped on your finger. One on his. No kiss. No warmth. That was it — your wedding day. Hollow. Pathetic.

Living together was no better.

You tried to be kind. To talk, to make this bearable. That ended in shouting matches that echoed through the manor. You tried to keep your distance, to give him space — but even that sparked anger. You didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe he didn’t either.

Hope faded quickly. For both of you.

And yet — here you are, one year later.

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering warmth of a single candle. You sit at your vanity in a silk lace nightgown, gently wiping the remnants of your makeup from tired eyes. The scent of lavender drifts faintly from the oil burning beside you.

Behind you, he lies on the bed — silent, soft-eyed — with your two-month-old daughter rising and falling on his chest, her tiny fists curled against his shirt.

He watches you.

And for once… it’s not with resentment.